


A Study in Reflection (A Study in Dejection)

by MagitekUnit05953234



Series: Like Real People Do [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Cloning Blues, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Neglect, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Torture, In Which Aranea Doesn’t Come For Prompto during his DLC, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Sad with a Tentatively Hopeful Ending, Self-Hatred, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, and he finds a new friend instead, goodness gracious i didnt realize how dark this thing got as i was writing it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-08-25 04:19:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16654138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagitekUnit05953234/pseuds/MagitekUnit05953234
Summary: Prompto’s blood would be boiling if it weren’t so horrifically cold. He swallows down the anger and the unease and the impending breakdown he’s been fighting off since Altissia.Prompto pats his double on the shoulder. “Let’s go. Better not waste time, yeah?”Ignis would be proud of that, maybe.Prompto isn’t sure.





	A Study in Reflection (A Study in Dejection)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompts "frostbitten" and "identical."  
> This was rough. This _is_ rough. My apologies.

“Oh gods,” Prompto pulls himself up from the snow, battling through the breathlessness and the pain arcing through his bones. “Oh gods, I’m so sorry. I didn’t— shit, I didn’t think the fall was that big. Are you okay?”

There’s no response.

Prompto pales, the red bite to his cheeks draining to ashy pink in his panic. “Hey. Hey! Come— come on. Where are you? _Are you okay?_ ”

Prompto stumbles to the other side of the crashed snowmobile and lets out a relieved laugh of his double sitting up in a snowdrift, alive and well enough to be making faces at the cloudy sky.

“You can’t go quiet on me,” Prompto stretches out a hand. “Come on. We gotta get that snowmobile running and get outta here.”

  
Prompto’s double, the nameless young man clothed in stolen Niff fatigues, takes Prompto’s hand and lets himself be helped up. He silently assists Prompto inturning the snowmobile over, then watches with curious eyes as Prompto tries to cajole the damn thing into starting up again. Prompto cusses every once in a while as he tinkers, glancing up at the sky in fear that a dropship will arrive at any moment.

“Well,” Prompto clasps his hands over his mouth and blows warm air into them. He gave his gloves to his double before they escaped the facility. “Looks like we’re walking. It’s fine. It’s totally fine. I walked for days out here already and it worked out. It’s no big deal. We’ll just ah… find the rails and follow them to… uh. To Cartanica, I guess. Then on to Altissia. We can probably get back to Lucis from there or something. Right?”

Prompto’s double doesn’t have much to add. He stands and waits for Prompto to tell him what to do.

Prompto’s blood would be boiling if it weren’t so horrifically cold. He swallows down the anger and the unease and the impending breakdown he’s been fighting off since he found himself in a room full of carbon copies of himself suspended in tanks and rotting into miasma. Or perhaps this started after… the train. Or Altissia. Or…

Prompto pats his double on the shoulder. “Let’s go. Better not waste time, yeah?”

Ignis would be proud of that, maybe.

Prompto isn’t sure.

They start walking. Snow begins to fall.

* * *

 

Prompto hates this. He just hates this so _much_ . He gave his double a rapidus SMG in case they got into trouble on the way out of the facility, and his double sprays bullets into the MT patrol they stumbled on without question, face blank. He works the gun as if he was made to—  
Prompto hates this. He hates shooting these MTs (they all wore his face once they all were him he is them) and he hates that his double just doesn't care. Prompto fights because he has to. His double fights because Prompto told him to.  
It's... a singularly awful feeling, to give the command to murder.  
Does this count? Would it be murder if Prompto were killed? Would it be murder if his double were killed? Where is the line? They're all inhuman, so is there a difference between Prompto and his double and the other MTs at all? What is the value of a fake life created through evil?

  
Prompto can't think about this. He pulls his double through the snow once the patrol has dissolved into nothing. They need to find shelter. Prompto can panic later.

They find a cave not too long after the fight concludes, nestled in a wall just off of a lake turned solid. Prompto can’t muster up the energy to be relieved by the time he and his double settle in on the cold stone floor. Prompto feels frozen. His flesh, his bones, his heart. All of it is stiff with ice, crackling with every movement.

There’s firewood in the cave, chopped neatly and stacked against a wall. Someone knows about this place and Prompto doesn’t want to consider who that could be. He takes the stroke of luck as it comes.

He builds a fire just the way Gladio taught him one cool summer’s night in Leide. Prompto lights it with a book of matches he pilfered from that godsforsaken facility.

Prompto digs through his stolen bag of stolen goods, laying out cans and ammo and files on the rock in front of him “Hey, uh. I hope you don’t mind beans. It’s kinda… all we’ve got to eat.”

Prompto’s double looks at the can Prompto is waving around. He just _looks_.

Prompto isn’t in the mood to fill the silence, so he doesn’t bother. He heats up the food as best he can without a pot or anything (oh how he’d kill for Ignis’s cooking station, oh how he’d kill for Ignis, oh gods Ignis is never going to cook again is he) and he offers the can and a fork to his double first. “Here. Eat as much as you gotta. You need it.”

The can sits, lukewarm, in Prompto’s hand.

“Go on,” Prompto just wants to do one good thing. Just one thing. Take care of this cloneMTworthlessfakemonsterm̷̹̱̲̣̩͌͂̈́̑͌͆́̈́̔͜o̷͍̤̫͎̯͚̊͒ͅń̵̹͓̦̘͛̉̌̔̋̔̉̅̆̓̍́̾͘͜s̷̡̡̢̭̝͍̥̜͈͖͈͇̪̲̥͋͌̋̾̃͌͐͐́̌̿͘ţ̶̨͕̙͕̫̰̆͂̍̋̈́͗̌͝e̴͚̤̥̳͚̙̪̳̟͐̑̈́́̊͌̈̾̓̃͜͠͝ͅͅŗ̵̜͕̜͚͇̼͋͑m̴̛̛͓̖̟̪̲̍͋̽̔́̏̕͠ő̷͈̘̯̝͈̭̳͍̥̪̔̑̋́̑̚͘͜͝ǹ̴̨̓͐́͋̋̿͛̓̇̐͒͘̚͝s̸̡͍̭͔͓̙̗̪͔̟͎̠̺̜̍́t̵̲̣̣̍̿͋̽̀̄́͂͘͘ë̶̡͍̙̱̾͐́̐r̸̡̝̻̼̟̗̪̀̃̂̉͑̈́͒̍̎͊̚. “Take it. Eat.”

Prompto’s double finally grabs the can. He holds the fork in a fist, like a dagger in reverse grip. He looks at the food. Prompto hates that look above anything else. It’s… not empty, but close. Almost uncomprehending, but too apathetic to amend it.

“You—” Prompto hates to ask it but, hell, he doesn’t _know_. “You do know how to eat, don’t you? They didn’t just… teach you how to shoot guns and walk and talk and then stick you back in a jar, right?”

“I can eat,” Prompto’s double says. He scoops into the can with his fork still held wrong. Somehow he manages to get the beans on the fork and into his mouth that way. Small miracles.

Prompto realizes he’s staring and tears his eyes away toward the fire instead. “Have you thought about...uh. The whole. Name thing?”

“I have,” Prompto's double takes another bite.

He doesn’t elaborate.

“Okay,” Prompto takes a deep breath, then another. As the fire defrosts his flesh, it warms his blood. Enough to steam, to bubble, not boiling but dangerously close. “And…?”

“Any change in designation must be requested through the appropriate channels.”

“That’s— that’s not— you should have a name,” Prompto’s skin is crawling. He’d hoped he wouldn’t get this spiel again but of _course_ he is.

This is quite possibly the worst conversation Prompto has ever had, and that’s including the one he had with Verstael (before Prompto _murdered_ him) and the one he had with his parents when he was twelve and they finally decided that they liked the money they got from the government for keeping him more than they actually liked _him_. He never saw them after that. They sent a check every month to cover rent and utilities (down to the exact cent so Prompto couldn’t “waste” the rest) but eventually even that kindness stopped.

This conversation might be worse than that because Prompto’s double levels his bluepurpleinhuman eyes at him and says—

“My designation is 05953413. I fail to see why it is so important that that change.”

“That’s just _numbers_!” Prompto grits his teeth because they're not _exact_ , but they’re so damn close to the numbers he’s been wanting to erase from his skin (from his mind from his life) for so long. “Don’t you want a real name?”

“I don’t—” here he pauses. He doesn't look at Prompto or anything, but he still hesitates just a little. “I don’t see a difference. Magitek units don’t get names anyway.”

Prompto isn’t going to call him by his _designation_. He won’t. He doesn’t want to force anything on… this person, but if he starts treating the numbers branded on their wrists like legitimate markers of their identity then Prompto will lose his mind much faster than he’s already going to. He’s trying to keep it together, godsdamnit. “If I want to call you something else, will you let me?”

“What I want isn’t important.”

So he does want _something_. This is a start. Prompto will take anything he can get. Anything. “But will you?”

“Yes.”

The fork scrapes the bottom of the tin. Prompto thinks.

He’s never named someone before. Never thought he would have to either. Not like he ever thought he’d have kids. Especially not after he signed himself up for the military. Sure, being in the Crownsguard is typically pretty harmless (nothing like the Glaives, who are decimated in droves, incomprehensible numbers that only get a brief mention in the news because they’re all outsiders so they hardly matter to Insomnians) but he knew then just as well as he knows now that he would throw his life away for Noct without question.

He never expected to live long enough to have a kid so he never thought about it.

And now… well. Prompto doesn’t have a kid. What he has is a _person_ who looks just like him —minus the hair and with added scars of mysterious and terrifying origin— and he has to give them a name or else he is going to end up crying right here in this stupid cave and he _can’t afford that_. He can’t afford a second to think because then this dark thing that’s been roiling inside him for days now is going to swallow him up and make him do something rash—

Prompto honestly isn’t sure whether he’d even care if the cave were to collapse on him right now, but he’d care if his double (what a shitty thing to call him, really, isn’t he his own personthingcloneworthlessm̴̛̛͓̖̟̪̲̍͋̽̔́̏̕͠ő̷͈̘̯̝͈̭̳͍̥̪̔̑̋́̑̚͘͜͝ǹ̴̨̓͐́͋̋̿͛̓̇̐͒͘̚͝s̸̡͍̭͔͓̙̗̪͔̟͎̠̺̜̍́t̵̲̣̣̍̿͋̽̀̄́͂͘͘ë̶̡͍̙̱̾͐́̐r̸̡̝̻̼̟̗̪̀̃̂̉͑̈́͒̍̎͊̚) were to get hurt. And that’s the funny part, isn’t it? By all rights, Prompto should hate him just as much as Prompto hates himself but it’s easy to view this sad spectacle as a victim instead of an abomination. He hasn't had a chance to live yet. Prompto has and he managed to fuck it up entirely.

Maybe that’s the difference between a victim and a monster? Between someone in need of rescuing and something who burdens everyone he loves with his useless weight?

Prompto winces as the fork scrapes the edge of the can again.

“How about… uh,” Prompto is gonna hate whatever name he comes up with, he can feel it. “How about Maris? Can I call you that?”

Prompto’s double inclines his head in the tiniest approximation of a nod. He drops some beans on the ground. They drip off the fork and hit the floor with hardly a sound. Prompto's double looks at the beans. Then he looks at Prompto. His eyes are wide. He puts the can down carefully, places the fork tines-down into the can, then reaches down with a gloved pointer and thumb out, as if he’s going to pluck the fallen beans from the ground.

“Hey, hey—” Prompto reaches over and takes hold of his doubles wrist, stilling the motion. “Five second rule, right? You don’t gotta eat that. It’s gross.”

“It’s a waste,” he—Maris?— says.

“It’s fine,” Prompto hesitates. “Maris. Don’t worry about it, okay?"

Maris flexes his wrist, still held loosely in Prompto’s right hand. “Okay.”

* * *

 

When Prompto wakes up, he’s shivering. The fire has been out for too long, and something is rumbling in the distance. Something— something _roars_.

“What,” Prompto blinks the blurriness out of his eyes and tries to shake the numbness out of his hands. “What’s happening?”

Maris is standing at the entrance to the cave, peering out. His left hand keeps adjusting his beanie as if it’s on wrong, though it’s not. “The Diamond Weapon. It’s awoken.”

“Wh- oh _shit_ ,” Prompto pulls himself to his feet and grabs his bag, slinging it over his shoulders. “We gotta _go_.”

Maris doesn’t seem nearly as concerned over their impending deaths as Prompto is. He watches Prompto prepare a rocket launcher with the same disinterest as he watched Prompto make a fire. “I don’t think the Diamond Weapon is something you can run from.”

“We’re not going to run,” Prompto can’t manage to calm the shake in his hands, but he tries. “I’m gonna destroy it.”

His blood boils.

“How?” Maris cocks his head, almost like a puppy if a puppy were an incredibly maladjusted person who has never seen the sun in his life, probably.

“Let’s find out?” Prompto hefts his grenade launcher over his shoulder. “Uh. Sorry if I die on the way. At least try to get to Cartanica if I do. Follow the sun along the railroad.”

“You won’t die,” Maris pulls his gun from his back and readies it, as if he’s really going to take on a daemonic superweapon with nothing but a submachine gun —though is Prompto any better? “Not before me. Commanders’ lives take priority.”

Prompto’s heart sinks.

* * *

 

Prompto’s fingers are numb with cold. His ears ring.

He loads another missile into his launcher. Maris is a study in reflection to Prompto's left.

The snow is coming down heavy. If it weren't for the glow of Immortalis's dreadful, monstrous face, Prompto would barely be able to see it.

 _You've gone homicidal_ , Prompto thinks as he fires a missile.

 _No, patricidal_ , Prompto watches the abomination fall.

It’s quiet. The only sound is that of the fires erupting across the machine, somehow hot enough to melt the metal. Must be the miasma reacting with the flame or something. Prompto doesn't really know how that works.

Maris clears his throat. “Am I a traitor?”

Prompto’s voice cracks. “Probably.”

“Okay,” Maris bites his lip. Prompto wonders if its a hereditary habit, offhand. The fire burns.

Prompto breathes. He slides down to his knees, feeling the snow seep into his pants. He covers his face and closes his eyes. His legs feel like they’ve been filled with jelly.

“Immortalis was supposed to be indestructible,” Maris breathes out something almost like a laugh. “It was supposed to be the end of Lucis. The end of Eos.”

“Sounds like we got lied to,” Prompto shivers as a freezing gale sweeps over the ice wastes, making the snow come down even harder.

“Why?” Maris steps closer to Prompto. He pulls the edge of his beanie down further over his ears.

Prompto can only guess.

* * *

 

For a moment, in his panic, Prompto _forgets_ . He forgets all about slamming his audax blade into the glass of a one-man prison, he forgets about pressing a revolver to Verstael’s chin and pulling the trigger, he forgets about pulling his carbon copy out of the snow, he forgets about that _look_ in those eyes…

Then—

Then he tugs at the restraints, tears at them, thrashes. His skin breaks, dripping blood down his arms. “Where is he? What did you do with him?”

Ardyn turns. “The magitek trooper you found in Vogiliupe? Oh, you should have _said_ you still wanted it. I don’t make a habit of keeping spares. If it serves as any consolation, _you_ are an exception.”

“Wha— he’s not. I’m not—”

“I find that I don’t have much patience for those who overestimate their own importance,” Ardyn’s gaze sweeps over Prompto, amused in a bored sort of way, as if Prompto is a circus animal performing the same comedic act Ardyn has seen a million times.

Maybe he is. How many clonesMTsworthlessm̴̛̛͓̖̟̪̲̍͋̽̔́̏̕͠ő̷͈̘̯̝͈̭̳͍̥̪̔̑̋́̑̚͘͜͝ǹ̴̨̓͐́͋̋̿͛̓̇̐͒͘̚͝s̸̡͍̭͔͓̙̗̪͔̟͎̠̺̜̍́t̵̲̣̣̍̿͋̽̀̄́͂͘͘ë̶̡͍̙̱̾͐́̐r̸̡̝̻̼̟̗̪̀̃̂̉͑̈́͒̍̎͊̚s̸̡͍̭͔͓̙̗̪͔̟͎̠̺̜̍́ has Ardyn watched suffer for the sake of the Empire’s crimes?

There's a sharp noise, the scrape of metal on metal, and Prompto's heart pounds at the sight of Ardyn lingering near the tray in the corner littered with sharp implements. They're stained with something dark.

Ardyn twirls a scalpel between his fingers the way Prompto would spin pens during class. “You know, your face was the first I saw after two thousand years in darkness.”

“What…?”

“It’s a shame,” Ardyn runs a finger along the edge of the blade. Testing its sharpness. “That you are but a mere facsimile of what he once was.”

Prompto doesn't stop panicking until Noct arrives.

Then he learns to stop trusting appearances so easily.

Through it all, he hopes Noct is okay. Prompto knows Noct must hate him, and that Gladio and Ignis can a͈̘̞̰͔̜͚͕̞͢͞n̡̩͕͚͢d̛͏͓̲̥̫̖̫̘̕ ͏̬̼̦ͅs̸͉̬̻̺͉̦̯ḩ̶͈͍͇̥̣͇͚͇o̷̧̳͓̞̱̯̲͓̩̹u̶̡̻͇͔̕l̢͕̱̬͙͔̹̞͖͡d̶̮̪͉̮͢͢ ͕͙͚̲͎̥͉͕à̵͏̣̰͔̘̰̰̗͉n͓͖͖͜ͅd͙̠͔̝ͅ ̸̼̗͔͉͍̱p̲̥͉̖͉̦͞ͅr̟ơ͏͕b͏͈̬̝͎̻͎̺͔̯̀ạ̸̛̥͖̱͉̫b̖͉̱͢l̖̖͟y̛̟̟͖̳ ҉̖͠w̸͉̱i̶̝̯̤l̵̛̮l̫̦̰̦̞̕ kill him on sight just like all the other MTs they've fought but… they've had some good times together, haven’t they?

Nights spent falling asleep on Noct's couch after ‘Guard training with Noct lazily pressing kisses into Prompto's neck. Mornings spent helping Iggy with breakfast, making jokes and slowly unlearning the terrible cooking habits he developed during a childhood spent alone. Afternoons spent training with Gladio, melding himself into someone he can be proud of. Eating around a fire, roping everyone into stupid roadside selfies, fighting side-by-side. Prompto still cares about that. He still cares about _them_ , monster though he may be.

N̵͐̽ͅo̵͈̎͂c̵̺̘͒͘t̴̨̒ȉ̷̯͓s̶̹͉̎Ǐ̶̜̈́g̸̡͕̈́ǹ̷̥́͜ỉ̴̤͒s̸͍̓̽G̸͓͙̐̚l̷͙̏a̵̲̎̄ͅḏ̷̂̈́ì̶̲͙͠o̴͙̩͐̋ saves him then breaks him and Prompto wishes it would just _stop_.

At one point, it registers that Prompto is in his Crownsguard uniform and not the clothes he stole to live through several days of struggling through a blizzard.

Prompto wonders how Ardyn got his Crownsguard uniform. He wonders how Ardyn got him _into_ his Crownsguard uniform.

He feels sick.

Prompto loses track of time.

A blessing.

He hangs by his arms. Metal digs into his ribs. Every second is an eon.

He breaks and breaks and

“Why…?”

Someone’s crying.

“Why what?”  
Everything is warm after so long spent in the cold.

“Why _what_ , Prompto?”

Glass shatters a billion miles away.

“Why are you here?”

The aches that had comprised reality for secondshoursdaysweekseternity fade into nothing.

“Wh-why wouldn’t I be?”

The sun rises somewhere and no one can see it.  
“Were you worried about me?”

* * *

 

“Have you— did you see anyone else here?” Prompto loses his footing as he steps on the seam of a metal grate wrong, barely catching himself on Noct’s shoulder.

Noctis doesn’t answer for a moment. He slows enough for Prompto to regain his rhythm. Noct’s jaw works. “Just MTs.”

 _Just MTs_.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Noct takes a breath. “Though… a lot of them looked like you. At the time.”

Prompto stops dead. Ignis’s cane hits his ankle. “What do you mean?”

“It’s the same as how… he tricked me. Illusions. Somehow.”

It could be. But Prompto _knows_ and Prompto _hasn’t told them_ and _Prompto is a liar_ because he won’t _just fess up_.

He knows what his face looks like on something else. Someone else.

_Where is Maris?_

“Are you sure?”

“Whenever I caught up with one it was just an MT. Empty armor,” Noct takes hold of Prompto’s hand and interlaces their fingers. “I’m… I’m glad we finally found the real you.”

As much as Prompto appreciates the feelings of Noctis reaffirming his care, Prompto can’t focus on it in the slightest. He has to know. He has to find _him_. Prompto made himself responsible for Maris the second Prompto broke Maris out of that tank. There isw̸̳̣̩͚̬̝͙̙̥͎̻̭͛a̸̲̱͇̪̱̞͍̘̳̙̗͖̠̣͗̎̀͐̅s̴̙͋̿̾͊̈́̓͠͝ a life in Prompto’s hands and it is indangerg̵̩̏o̴̠͘n̸̩̓e̵͇͘s̸̰͝n̸̟̈́û̶͔f̵̨̏f̸̝͘é̸̩d̵͖̅ỏ̷̩u̸͈̎t̵͓̂ņ̷̓e̶̬͛v̸̰͋ẽ̵̝r̷͙͝e̴̦̾x̷̗̀i̶̖̍s̷̯̍t̷̡̑ẹ̷͐d̵̡̀i̵͎͋ň̸͖t̷̝̿h̷̽ͅe̵͉̓f̴̡͑ì̸͎r̶͚͑s̷̮̒t̵̤̀ṗ̴͚l̴̢͗a̷̲̾c̸͖̓ë̴͜.

“I met someone before I ended up here. He might be in trouble. I don’t know where he is but I have to find him,” Prompto twists the bracelet around his wrist, feels its comforting presence. Tries not to think about who put it there and what’s beneath it. Fails. “I know you have to get to the Crystal so… you don’t have to wait for me. I’ll catch up with you after I find him.”

“This guy, he helped you?” Gladio asks. He steps up to stand closer to Prompto, parting from Ignis’s side. Prompto confirms.

“Then the Crystal can wait,” Noct’s grip tightens. “We’re not leaving anyone behind. Not you, and not him. We need as many people as we can get helping us anyway, even if he’s a Niff or something. As long as he’s on your side, then he’s on mine.”

A warmth spreads pleasantly through Prompto until—

“It’s not like you could get through this place without a keycard anyway,” Noct uses his open hand to wrangle a metal card out of his pocket. It’s inscribed with bars and diamonds and a̴̝̐n̷̝̐ḓ̸͆ á̸͚͘̕̕n̴̛͙̪͇̟̘̓̈́̽́̒d̴̛͉͂͑̉͒͑͌ Prompto has to tear his eyes away before he reads the numbers. “Seems like every door is locked.”

“Right,” Prompto licks his lips. “So. Where haven’t you been?”

“There’s the throne room and a few hangars I think,” Noct grimaces. “Maybe a lab? I know there’s some storage rooms if we backtrack a little.”  
Everywhere but the throne room is plausible enough.

“Is there any chance that your companion may be in the cells and we passed him on the way to you?” Ignis taps his cane against the floor, absently, as if he doesn’t realize he’s doing it.

“No.”

This Prompto knows.  
When Ņ̷̗̹͙̻͎̓̎̂̈́͛ȍ̵̠̘ç̸̧̮̱̤̀̉͂͆̄͝t̶̡͍̬̩̬̰̐̅̏͊̑̿i̴̲̺̺͛ͅs̸̙̬̣̀̀̿̕I̸̟̰̲̭̼̣̬͑g̷̬̗̳̬̫̃̄̆͊́́͘n̶̖̩̖̻̫̂̀ḯ̴͉͝ş̵̽G̷͕͚̯̚ĺ̴͖̦̰͗͆͐́̕a̵̫̼̬͆̃d̵̠̝̫̱̲̹͙̒͊̉͐i̵͈͗̆̃̑̂o̸͕̗̔̋̿̚͝͝ wasn’t there, Prompto was alone.

The labs are the last place Prompto wants to look, personally. “How about uh… the storage rooms? He could be hiding out in there. Can’t imagine them being real busy.”

“Good a place as any.”

* * *

 

The door won’t open.

“The hell?” Noct scans the keycard again. “This is supposed to have clearance to the whole place.”

Prompto has a bad feeling about this.

Noct tries again.

 _Beep_.

Red light.

The storage room is locked, which probably means there’s either something valuable in there like weapons and supplies… or someone has locked themselves in.

It could have been an ill-fated Niff scientist. Or it could have been Maris.

Prompto has to know.

 _Beep_.

Red light.

“Doors in a place like this are damn near indestructible,” Gladio says. “If you don’t have the key, you aren’t getting through. There’s no way in.”

Prompto’s left hand creeps to his wristband. He shakes.

It’s inevitable.

“There’s a way.”

 _Beep_.

Green light.

The door slides open.

The storage room is small, lit by dim lights above. It’s almost as if this room alone is experiencing a brownout. It’s filled with crates labeled with large white stickers. Lithium CR123A battery. Infrared thermal imager. Leg irons.

Scattered on the floor are sets of disassembled MT armor. Prompto knows that that stuff dissolves if an actual personthingcloneMT is hosted in the armor, so it must just be there because they’re meant to see it. For impact.

As if what awaits in the room itself isn’t enough.

Because what waits on the back wall, unconscious and limp, is Prompto

hanging

  from

     a

        metal

           cross.

No.

Not Prompto.

Maris.

But why—?

There’s the sound of a summoning, the crackle of crystals shattering in the air. Prompto turns.

Noct clutches the Sword of the Father in one hand. It shakes. Noct is shaking.

“Prompto,” Noct says. His eyes flicker past Prompto’s shoulder, to Maris, then back to Prompto. “What’s going on?”

“We— we don’t have time,” Prompto’s nerves are getting to him. After all this, they finally are getting to him now of all times. “We need to help Maris.”

“Who is—“ Noct shakes his head. Blinks rapidly. “It’s Ardyn. He’s run out of ideas. I don't know what Maris looks like —what you’re seeing— but Ardyn is making me see… _you_ basically. Damn it, what’s he playing at _now_?”

Ignis and Gladio are whispering rapidly behind Noctis. Prompto tries not to listen to his death sentence because, well, he’s seconds away from confirming what his little door trick revealed.

“It’s not… _Ardyn_. It’s not supposed to be me,” Prompto pulls his wristband off entirely. He offers his wrist in front of him, almost as if he is showing off a ring. His hand is tense, curled into a fist to control his own trembling. He feels like he's going to be sick but still he speaks. “He looks like me because we all look like me. We all look like each other.”

“We?” Gladio echoes.

“MTs,” Prompto’s exhale is fractured. “I’m one of them. And so is he.”

“What,” Noct’s voice is flattened in a way that Prompto has never quite heard before.

“I never really knew, but it’s true. They’re— we’re all clones. Meant to be combined with daemons and turned into those,” Prompto waves his other hand, at the armor on the floor. “Someone got me out when I was little. He was just lucky. I knew something was _wrong_ with me but I couldn't… I couldn't exactly tell anyone, growing up in Lucis. In Insomnia. And— and I met you and then I just. I didn't want to lose you because I had a tattoo I didn't understand—”

“Prompto—” Ignis says, but Prompto doesn’t want to watch the blade coming for him. He turns and stumbles over to the cross, supporting himself on crates in the absence of Noctis. If Prompto is about to suffer a painful demise, then he wants to at least get Maris down first.

Prompto knows how much it hurts. Personally, he knows.

Maybe Ardyn _is_ running out of ideas— or.

Or he'd trying to make Noctis confused. Two identical clones, crucified identically. Is the battered one in the ‘Guard uniform more convincing, or the one in Niff fatigues who is still strung up like a fish on a wire, eyes closed and muscles slack? Would Ardyn go so far as to shave Prompto's head for the hell of it? Would he go so far as to carefully cut a thick line over Prompto’s nose before breaking it, setting it, and tracing over that mark again just to watch him squirm?

How well can a fake act? Could a fake be convincing enough to fool not only Noctis, but Ignis and Gladio as well?

Prompto knows _exactly_ what Ardyn is capable but Noct _doesn’t_.

Prompto finds the release on the cross and presses it, bracing himself to catch Maris before he hits the floor. Prompto slumps under Maris’s weight, barely strong enough to keep himself standing much less bear the weight of another person. He lowers himself to his knees a little too quickly, banging them hard on the dark tile. Prompto rolls Maris over, supporting him under the shoulders, and checks his pulse. It’s… well. It sure is there. Feels fine.

Prompto doesn’t know how fast hearts are supposed to beat. He really only has his own for reference, and he has no idea if that thing is normal.

Though, Prompto supposes, Maris would probably have the same irregularity if there is one.

It seems okay. And that’s okay. That’s good.

Maris is just unconscious.

“Is he okay?” Someone touches Prompto’s shoulder, and he whips his head back to see that Noct has walked up behind him. Prompto can’t quite identify the look on Noctis’s face, but it doesn’t look murderous. Noct crouches down, pushing an MT chestpiece out of the way with his foot to give him room to stretch out his bad leg. “What’s his name?”

“It’s Maris,” Prompto pulls Maris’s hat further down over his ears. He looks ill, though Prompto gets told the same thing a lot so it might be nothing.

“Is he— hurt?” There’s a tightness in Noct’s tone.

“I don’t know. Just…he’s just passed out. I don’t know.”

* * *

 

They wait for Maris to wake up in a dorm. Noct’s weapons are back, and Prompto is back, and things are fine. They’re _fine_.

Maris sleeps.

Prompto sits on the cot across from Maris’s, not quite wanting to meet Noct’s eyes. He watches the rise and fall of Maris’s chest instead.

He’s alive. He’s just asleep.

Just asleep.

“This is… this is all really fucked up,” Noct says. He’s reading through the documents that Prompto stole from the facility. Every once in a while he plays one of the tapes, quietly. The sound of Verstael’s voice makes Prompto feel jittery and nauseous. He tries not to show it.

“Yeah,” Prompto swallows. He tugs at the seams of the band that’s supposed to cover his barcode. It’s slipped down a little too far. Somewhere between Altissia and now Prompto’s dropped weight, and his wrists have thinned just enough for all his bracelets to fall from their usual places.

On any other day, Prompto would be elated at losing the weight. Now it’s just another unasked-for change in his disaster of a life.

_This is all really fucked up._

Prompto tries to keep his face as neutral as he can.

“Hey,” Noct sits lightly on the end of the cot, his right thigh resting centimeters from Prompto’s left. “I didn’t. I didn’t mean that you are. Or… uh. Maris. Just. The whole thing sucks. You came out of it good though. Right?”

Noct is, as always, terrible at saying things the way he means, but that's good enough.

“I guess,” Prompto exhales. “If it makes you feel any better, Verstael’s dead. No more cloning, no more MTs. It's all over.”

“He's dead?” Noct shuffles through his papers. Prompto watches him find a photo of Verstael from decades ago, then hide it under the other documents. Probably unsettled by the resemblance, or maybe just the knowledge that he's deader than dirt. “How’d you know tha—”

Prompto can’t quite stop the half-sob that crawls his way out of his throat.

“Shit, _Prompto_ …”

“I murdered him,” Prompto covers his face with his hands. “Shit. Noct, I've never… I had to. _I had to._ ”

“It's okay,” Noct says. It definitely isn't. “It's okay, Prom. It's okay.”

“I _had_ to do it…”

* * *

 

Maris takes to Lucis about as well as Prompto took to Niflheim. That is to say, poorly. Prompto does his best to make Maris comfortable in Lestallum, but Prompto’s barely capable of dealing with his own issues at the moment, much less his clone with about three months worth of experience in being a person so far.

Prompto tries. He does.

“So, what’s the verdict?” Prompto squints into the mirror, wishing for the millionth time that he had his glasses. He left them behind in Insomnia what feels like eons ago, and he finally ran out of contacts shortly after departing Altissia. Prompto snips a little more off his bangs and hopes it doesn't look too bad.

“The verdict?” Maris echoes. He shuffles awkwardly behind Prompto, watching the haircut from over Prompto’s shoulder.

“Yeah,” Prompto sets the shears down and ruffles his damp hair, trying to see if it falls right. He really has no idea. “Your hair’s getting long enough to do something with. You want a haircut or wanna let it get longer?”

“Why don’t you just shave it all?”

“Shave what, my hair?”

“No, mine,” Maris shrugs. He never used to do that, but he picked it up around week two of living in this ramshackle apartment with Prompto in the quietest corner of the Lestallum that Prompto could find. “It’s what they would do in the facility.”

“Well,” Prompto is getting so _tired_ of these conversations. “I don’t think that matters. You can choose to do whatever you want with your hair.”

Maris taps his thighs with his hands— another habit acquired from the one person he’s consistently interacted with since coming to Lestallum. Prompto catches the movement, blurry but recognizable, in the mirror. “Isn't it easier to cut it as short as possible? That way no one can grab it. And it's cleaner.”

“Maybe,” Prompto hums. “But uh. You remember the clothes conversation? Hair can be like that, too.”

“An identity marker,” Maris recollects. It's not the way Prompto put it, but it's right.

“Yeah. To a lot of people, their hair is another way they say who they are by the way they look.”

“Ah,” Maris considers. “What does it say about me if I want to shave it?”

“I dunno,” Prompto tamps down the unease in his stomach. Tells himself that Maris's preference is a genuine desire and not a holdover from the first twenty, hellish years of life. “But as long as you at least keep some peach fuzz, I won't argue.”

“I want that,” Maris says.

The next day, Prompto stops by Gladio’s to borrow his electric clippers. Maris stays home because he still can't handle the crowds of a refugee-packed Lestallum. He barely handles Gladio and Ignis some days.

Prompto tries to believe that it's progress as he shears Maris’s hair down to a scant quarter of an inch. It’s progress.

It doesn't feel like it.

* * *

 

“He’s never coming back,” Prompto declares one night. He's just returned from a week long expedition into the wastes around the Vesperpool, and all attempts at cheer dissolved in the swamps that smelled of rot and miasma. He mustered up a smile when Maris welcomed him home, but that was about it.

Now, Prompto sits on the couch. Stares at the ceiling. Nurses the sixth bottle of a case of beer he promised Ignis he threw out. Shivers, though it isn't cold.

Maris isn't the best at being comforting (he’s learning from the worst, after all) but he’s seen this enough times to have an idea of what the situation is. “He will. He is a good soldier. I fought at his side. With you, before we were overrun. He’s strong.”

“Stronger than the fucking gods? Than the apocalypse?” Prompto laughs wetly, mind blurring the fact that Maris called Noct a _soldier_ into obscurity. “No one’s strong enough for this. No one’s strong enough for this shit. We’re all gonna fuckin’ starve to death or get torn apart by daemons and nothing we’re doing matters.”

Maris doesn't reply. He turns disappears into the kitchenette and Prompto doesn't think to move until he hears glass shatter.

“M-Maris?” Prompto pulls himself up from the couch, staggers as he finds his footing. He sets his beer down on the coffee table. “You… okay?”

The sound of an impact. Something else breaks.

Prompto enters the doorway to see Maris calmly winding up to smash another bottle into the sink.

“H-hey, what are your doing?” Prompto starts forward, startles when Maris cracks the neck off an unopened beer, and falls forward, catching himself on the counter in time to see the last drops of that bottle descend down the drain.

“Stop drinking these,” Maris says. It's the first order he's ever given.

Prompto slumps down to the floor.

Maris, presumably because he doesn't know how to get the top off a bottle, breaks another and pours out the alcohol. Tiny shards of brown glass descend from the point of impact, raining down to rest on Prompto’s hair and clothes.

Prompto suddenly realizes that he isn't teaching Maris very good habits.

Well. It’s a problem for tomorrow. As soon as Prompto can get some sleep. As soon as Maris runs out of bottles to wreck as noisily as possible.

Tomorrow.


End file.
